The only people who could be more exhausted than the London journalists returning from the great celebration at the Volkswagen works are the organisers left behind at Wolfsburg. Party conventions in the United States, rallies of religious bodies at Wembley or Twickenham, and ticker-tape receptions pale into insignificance when 150,000 people converge on a factory to drink and dance at the completion of one tiny car.

The fleet of little red buses, escorted by armed police crouching over motorcycles, and carrying the foreign pressmen, arrived in time to let the occupants see the ceremony; but the first words in English that they heard were from the perspiring publicity manager, who yelled in sincere desperation: “Ladies and gentlemen, please go away.” That no one took the slightest notice, and remained pressed at the foot of the assembly belt, effectively preventing the diamond-studded car from entering the world at all, was probably because they were not ready to return to the far corners of the earth from whence they had flown that morning without their lunch. The subsequent battle for sandwiches bore this out.

“All car factories are the same,” a weary motoring correspondent remarked during a two-hour trudge through belts, presses, machines, and flying sparks; but the men wore hair nets and looked happy, which may be unique. At the dinner in the technicians’ hall, the more ardent nationalists waved little flags to rally their compatriots to their side, while the British, lacking such a lead, sat where they could, self-conscious between singing Danes, applauding Middle-Easterners, and Swedes who yelled “Rah. Rah. Rah.” The speeches went on during the entire meal, but as they were entirely unintelligible in a diversity of tongues, they assumed no more importance than background music.

The main feature of the celebrations was the international entertainment in a specially constructed stadium. At the open end the stage lay before a flight of gigantic steps, while below, a brown ocean of heads, relieved by orange eyeshades given away by Coca-Cola, stood packed together with commandable impassivity and patience. Over the stands, filled with more favoured guests, flags of a hundred nations stood out against a clouded sky.

Bands and folk-dancers from Switzerland, Sweden, and the Netherlands marched and pranced in national costumes, Walloons in three-foot-high headdresses threw oranges with uncalled-for fierceness, coffee-coloured girls swayed to Brazilian swing, and at the announcement of “The Life Guard of the Queen,” the regimental band of the Irish Guards marched on followed by a troupe of Scottish dancers.

France was represented by a band which appeared with a dog, children, and white-skirted women, but eight girls from the Moulin Rouge saved the day with can-can dances and acrobatic splits. The Vienna State Ballet Company fluttered around in white to the tunes of Strauss and finally the Volkswagen works band led all the bands in a mass finale, as Dr Nordhoff walked down the steps to the cheers of the audience. At one moment a German voice announced over the loud-speakers: “My children there is no point in it.” We were assured, however, that this was not supposed to have been broadcast.